


“try some.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [27]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: (sort of), Angst, Crushes, Detectives, F/F, Fluff, High School AU, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: PART 3The Wells & Wong Detective Society is launching an investigation into George Mukherjee and Alexander Arcady, believing them to be in love. To mirror this development, the Junior Pinkertons are launching an investigation into Daisy Wells and Hazel Wong, believing them to be in love.Modern AUWritten for the twenty-seventh prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee, Daisy Wells & Hazel Wong, Daisy Wells/Hazel Wong
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	“try some.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialskies (littlebirdrocks)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebirdrocks/gifts).



> This story is an amalgamation of headcanon from the amazing MMU discord, particularly from the person this is dedicated to. Furthermore, this oneshot will be one of a few from this oneshot series set in the same universe continuing the same storyline.

**GEORGE**

Even though Hazel does not have a pass for The Den, the teachers do not mind her being in there with all of us. As Deepdean & Weston is a dreadfully loud, it means that we spend out lunchtimes in The Den, usually discussing mysteries over cookies.

Yesterday, we were detectives as we covered the confession Avery Blackwater made and the false date on Amal Chanda’s forged arrest warrant. Today, we are normal teenagers as we whisper of the Year 10 students caught smoking on the field and the rumours of Amina El Magrhrabi being something other than straight.

“She _radiates_ lesbian energy,” Daisy says, studying her half-chipped black nail polish. “I mean, have you _seen_ her dress sense?”

“She also check you out,” Hazel adds, a glimmer in her eyes. “Especially during hockey matches.”

“She _does_ ?” In an instant, Daisy recovers herself. “I mean— how do you know _that_ , Watson? You looking there yourself?”

I freeze — why did Daisy have to say that? — before bursting out laughing. Alex and Hazel follow, so it doesn’t look odd when Hazel is red-faced even after we’ve caught our breaths. As we laugh, Alex leans his head on my shoulder and I stiffen as I try not to jerk in surprise.

You see, I am in love with Alexander Arcady.

It’s an awful cinematic cliche that would make me sick if I read a book, a story about a pretty-boy genius of a teenage boy hopelessly in love with his best friend of five years.

Perhaps that is why the one regret I have is so enormous it allows for no other: the night of prom.

* * *

For once, there was no mystery on prom night. Daisy whirled and danced with everybody, Hazel was amicable and congratulating everyone on surviving school, and I was forced to twirl Clementine Decroix around the room — prom queen and prom king, you see. When the more official part of prom came to an end, and we were all dancing and drinking and laughing, Alex and I sat side by side, and we talked and reminisced and _drank_.

Hazel dragged Daisy back to Bertie and Harold’s flat at the end of the night — for Felix and Lucy would fall into their chillingly strict shouting if they saw Daisy drunk — so Alex and I stumbled back to where I live with my parents, who were on holiday.

Alexander Arcady is straight, I have to stress. Unless, apparently, he is on the cusp of being _incredibly_ drunk.

The thing I regret? I gave in.

I allowed him to kiss me, caress me, thread his hands through my hair.

When his hands reached here, there, everywhere, I did not protest.

Five years of _wanting_ a touch from Alex roiled up to meet our kiss.

I was weak.

* * *

When I woke up — with nothing on, if I must mention — I was confused. I was in my room, which was not too unusual, but when I turned to my left I almost fell from the bed.

_What happened last night?_

Alex was stretched out next to me and when it occurred to me what it must mean, I did what I never do: I panicked. Dazed confusion was shaken from my head as a realisation rocketed around my mind.

_Alexander and I had sex._

After the moment of utter horror, I grabbed my underwear and trousers from the ground and pulled them on, swept up all the other pieces of my tux, and crept down the stairs.

Once downstairs, I wriggled my way into my shirt and distressed myself to a suitable degree before discarding my jacket and everything else on the ground as if I had shrugged it off before falling asleep.

I fished out my phone from my jacket pocket and glanced down at the notifications. All there was on the screen was a lot of messages from Clementine’s prom-planning group chat.

Oh _no_.

I leapt to my feet and began to pace the length of the room. What if someone noticed? How close did Alex and I act last night?

The first hundred or so messages were the photos Clementine and the others took that night.

The final few (hundred) photos were various people in the room. One… one of myself and Alex. _Several_ of myself and Alex. The two of us are draped all over each other in the photos, his feet in my lap, my hand in his fair, his hand slid down the back of my collar, my arm around his waist.

I suddenly recalled all of last night with such force that I had to stagger back into my father’s armchair.

The pounding headache beat inside my skull but I squinted teary eyes to look at the group chat once again. Thankfully, the other photos of the that night — everyone draped over _everyone_ — obscured Alexander and I being… a little more than friends.

I declared to myself in my mind, _That is the last time I ever drink vodka._

There were footsteps on the stairs and Alex — half-dressed in his trousers and a half-buttoned dress shirt — opened the door. “George!” he said, a grin on his face. “Lord, what happened last night? I don’t remember anything beyond Hazel being dared to try a shot of vodka!”

“Uh—” _Think, George, think. It’s a blessing that he doesn’t remember._ “We stumbled back here and you passed out in _my_ bed.” I made sure to force a joking note in my voice, as if I was irritated by him taking my bed as opposed to shocked that we shared it. “I came to get a drink, intending to go and sleep in Harold’s old room, but I passed out on the couch after getting dressed down to about what you see here.”

I gesture down to my mussed appearance and Alex slowly nodded. “Ah. That sounds about right. I can’t imagine _why_ I got totally undressed. I woke up stark naked!”

“You were _drunk_ to the imaginary heavens, Alex! Why question what you did when you were drunk?”

He snorted. “I suppose that’s true.” He set his head in his hands. “Remind me to never drink again.”

I made for the fridge with my phone in my hand, thanking Clementine in the group chat for her hangover-curing concoction recipe.

I noted the wine on one of the shelves and tugged it down, brandishing it at Alex jokingly. “Wine?”

“ _Fuck_ no!”

We laughed then, until we felt as if we should burst at the seams, and all returned to normal.

* * *

“I think he’s off imagining _Otto Gallagher_!”

The unfamiliar voice jerks me back to normal, and I look over to see Amina El Maghrabi peering down into my face, shoulders hunched in laughter. “Oh!” I blink. “I— sorry, Amina! Away with the fairies.”

“Not like you to daydream,” Hazel says, and though her smile is kind, I see her posture tighten when Amina looks to Daisy.

“I’ll have you know that he does it more often than he lets on!”

Alex’s voice startles me more than Amina’s did. When he speaks, I hear the words he said on prom night all over again.

_“Please, George. I swear I’ll remember this tomorrow.”_

“Yes,” I reply in my usual cynical tone that comes to me as naturally as breathing, “when it’s two in the morning, Hazel’s writing up case notes, Daisy’s watching Buzzfeed Unsolved, and you’re sat at the foot of my bed watching _Pride and Prejudice_.”

Amina snorts. “You’re the weirdest group.”

“Hey,” Alex says softly, bumping my arm with his own.

I jump as if struck and he looks at me, concerned. “George! What’s wrong with you today?”

Now is as good a time as any, I suppose. I can pass it off as an explanation for my jumpiness.

“Daisy,” I say, looking to her and grinning, “did Bertie message you?”

“No?” She despises not being in the know, and she snatches her phone from her pocket to look. “God, he’s awful at remembering to tell me shit.”

“Ha!” I hold out my phone. “Asian people are organised.”

A snort comes from Hazel, who covers her mouth with one hand. “Agreed there. Daisy used to say that she thought we’d never _heard_ of dirt in Hong Kong!”

“Better than Egypt!”” Amina says, sitting down beside Hazel and tucking up her long legs onto the seat. “Everything is _dusty_ all the time!”

“Try America,” says Alexander, his natural good nature coming back as he leans forward, supporting himself with forearms across his knees, laughing and loud and red in the face. I live for him looking so happy. “You can’t go ten minutes without seeing an American flag or some replica bald eagle, and you could drive for _hours_ and still be in California!”

“Americans,” Daisy begins as she looks up from my phone, clearly having read the message, “think a hundred years is a long time, while the British a hundred miles is a long way.”

The observation is said with such dry humour that we all snort with laughter again, and I accept my phone back to see that Daisy messaged Harold something.

On Sunday, Harold sent me a message.

_Bub._

_H._

_I have a proposition for you!_

_I’m not killing someone for you, H!_

_You’re so dramatic. No, Bertie and I came top of the class and he suggested that, to celebrate, we drag you, Daisy, and your detectives to a nice place for dinner next week on Wednesday. Thoughts?_

_Let me think… no._

_Come ON._

_I’m joking, of course I’ll come and bring my ‘detective’. His name is Alexander._

_He’s still YOUR detective, bub!_

Fast-forward through several conversations about where our father keeps the spare house keys, my grandmother’s macaroons, and something about Donald Trump, and Daisy has messaged him this enlightening phrase: _Harold, please tell my brother to go and fuck himself for forgetting to tell me about the dinner we’re apparently having. —Daisy_

“Hazel,” Daisy says, turning to her, “we’re going to dinner with Harold and Bertie tonight.”

It’s funny how she doesn’t give Hazel a choice. I know Hazel will go along with it anyway.

I don’t miss how Amina reacts to those names. “Oh. I’ve heard of them.”

Daisy draws out her fingers in a box, as if framing imaginary words. “‘WELLS FAMILY DISGRACED’, perhaps?”

The awkwardness is palpable. “Yes, that might be it.” After a beat, Amina rummages in her bag and pulls out a tupperware container. “I made cookies,” she said, “try some!”

There is a tone in her voice as she speaks to Daisy that could be interpreted as something like admiration. Hazel tenses and I notice the anxiety from earlier coming back.

“These are amazing!” Daisy says around her mouthful. “ **Try some** , Hazel!”

And she feeds the cookie into Hazel’s slightly-open mouth.


End file.
